


I Wanted a Gold Medal, but All I Got Was a Phone Number

by jingsino



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Crushes, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jingsino/pseuds/jingsino
Summary: Greed. Noun. An insatiable desire to possess more than one needs. The downfall of great men everywhere, and Seung-gil's theme this year. Too bad he's never experienced it in his life.But, maybe a certain Thai skater can help him pull this off.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i spent like 5 years Angsting over this fic for No Reason. i'm sort of in love with seungchuchu and this Mess is the result of that love.
> 
> im on tumblr if u want 2 yell @ me: dadlover123

He’s absentmindedly nodding at his coach, pretending to listen to whatever advice she’s giving him this time, when someone calls his name. He startles, head snapping up from its focused staring contest with the floor, and scans the area for the source. His coach looks at him with that ‘ _are you kidding me I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes_ ’ face she always has on after something in Seung-gil’s expression gives him away, but it barely registers when he locks eyes with an approaching skater.

Phichit Chulanont, if he remembers correctly. His jacket says Thailand and his mouth is saying... _something_.

His coach looks at him expectantly. Seung-gil ignores her. “Excuse me?” he says, cutting off whatever it is Phichit is going on about. It comes out flat and short, more like a statement than a question.

Phichit simply pauses. The enthusiasm-- _enthusiasm for who, me?_ Seung-gil thinks--doesn’t fade at all; there’s still a telling curve to his lips, a slight lift to his brows. “I just wanted to compliment on you on your performance,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly and averts his eyes. “Oh, sorry, you might not know me. I’m Phichit Chulanont! I--”

“I know who you are,” Seung-gil interjects again. He takes another step forward, brushing past Phichit, past the disapproving aura his coach is giving off. A soft, “ _Oh_ ,” reaches his ears, and Seung-gil makes the mistake of looking back.

A second is all it takes for Phichit’s wide brown eyes to enrapture Seung-gil. They practically sparkle, which is _unfair_ and should be impossible, but Phichit doesn’t seem to care. His eyes crinkle a bit and Seung-gil realizes he’s smiling, warmer and brighter than any smile has the right to be. It’s unfamiliar, strange, _radiant_ , and it’s directed at him, of all people. His knees lock uncomfortably.

“Why are you smiling?” he wants to ask. “Why do you look so satisfied to be talking to me? How are you a real person?”

“Ngh,” is the most accurate transcription of the strangled sound that worms out of his throat.

Phichit doesn’t remark on his eloquence. “That’s good! You know me already.” 

“No, I don’t,” he says, except not really because _again_ his voice is failing him.

“You’re Seung-gil Lee. Did I get that right before?”

He grunts. Sort of. It sounds more like he’s choking. Oh, _God_. He manages to nod, in case his affirmation isn’t clear.

Phichit eyes widen, amplifying the way he practically glows. He looks so damn pleased. “Oh, good, good. I didn’t want to forget your name. You did really good.” Is _good_ the only word he knows?

“Thank you,” Seung-gil mumbles.

Phichit hums, and leans forward, so close he could probably count each individual eyelash if he tried. “Cheer for me when it’s my turn, okay?”

Seung-gil’s eyes widen. He jerks back, pulling at the collar of his shirt and wondering if someone was messing with the thermostat. Phichit continues to smile graciously, waiting for his reply, so he sputters a, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter, okay.”

Phichit’s smile breaks into a full-on grin. His teeth are white and blinding. Are those dimples? “Thanks, Seung-gil!” He grabs his hand and shakes it. Seung-gil is horrified, because his hands are hot and sweaty and trembling and Phichit looks so utterly delighted anyway. “I’ll keep cheering for you, too!” he promises, eyes alight with determination.

Seung-gil inhales sharply and tears himself away. He forces his feet to move, pointedly ignoring the heat at the back of his neck, the tight, twisting feeling in his chest. Looking back is a bad decision he already made once, but he can’t help it.

Phichit waves as he leaves. He’s still smiling. “Let’s take a selfie later!”

He gapes for a moment before finally, _finally_ , mustering the strength to go. His coach shakes her head, and he picks up the pace when he realizes she’s chuckling.

This is _precisely_ why he doesn’t interact with the other skaters.

 

 

They never take that selfie later, because Seung-gil is miserable and broken and crying as his coach leads him away.

“I fell,” he chokes out. His palms are indented with crescents from clenching his fists for so long.

She doesn’t say anything for a while, rubbing circles at his back. He feels like he’s disappointed her, disappointed South Korea, disappointed everyone who expected better from him. _He_ expected better from himself. Even crying doesn’t make it any better, this restrained, silent sting of tears, a painful sob bitten behind his lips. He feels someone watching--Yuuri Katsuki, if his peripheral vision is being dependable--but he doesn’t really care. At least he knows what he did wrong, what he needs to fix; Yuuri seems to be relying on sheer emotion so far to pull him through this season, which is _dangerous_. _Good luck with that_ , he bitterly thinks.

On the ice, Seung-gil is alone.

He refuses to look up from the ground until he realizes they’ve stopped in front of the bathroom door.

“Seung-gil.” His coach doesn’t force him to meet her eyes. “Take a moment.”

His focus flickers from his feet to hers. “Okay.”

“I need to take care of some things.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.”

She rubs his shoulders briefly. He waits until her feet disappear from his view before he finally raises his head. There’s a few lingering figures at the end of the hall, but they don’t seem inclined to come any closer. He holds his breath and pulls the door open, letting it slam behind him.

It’s empty, so he doesn’t even bother going into a stall. A desperate sob breaks from his throat as he swings the faucet on and splashes cold water across his hot cheeks. It’s not as refreshing as he expects, but whatever, it’s okay, it’s _okay_.

He holds himself up by the sides of the sink. _I don’t need this, this is pointless_ , he thinks, but his grip is still painfully tight, his knees still embarrassingly weak. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, glaring down the drain and wishing all this disappointment could disappear down it, but eventually his knuckles are white and his palms are pink and he convinces himself he’s okay, for now at least.

The door creaks open. His heart drops. By the time possibly throwing himself into a stall has passed his mind, Phichit Chulanont is already entering the bathroom, glancing at Seung-gil and uttering a surprised, “Oh, excuse me--”

His eyes widen as he actually looks at Seung-gil. Another, “Oh,” escapes from his lips again, softer this time. He averts his eyes, so different from his unrelenting directness earlier. “Should I go?”

Seung-gil breathes deeply. “No. I’m fine.”

Phichit raises his brows.

“Really.”

The Thai skater scratches the back of his head and laughs nervously, a flush rising in his cheeks. “Well. I don’t really…” he trails off.

Seung-gil glares. He doesn’t have time for this, and he’s about to say so when Phichit finally blurts out, “I can’t pee with you here!”

_What._

“What do you mean.” Phichit starts to stammer, so he shakes his head. “Actually, never mind, I’ll just go.”

“No! No, no.” He slaps a hand on the door. “That’s okay.”

They meet each other’s eyes. His glare falters at how even and _nice_ Phichit’s eyes are.

Phichit plasters a grin onto his face. It’s awkward, out of place, nothing like the sheer delight he demonstrated before. “So.”

Seung-gil sighs. “Are you just going to keep me in here?”

There’s a silence as realization strikes Phichit. His face contorts as if he’s in deep pain. “Oh my God. I, _crap_ , sorry, this _really_ isn’t what I meant by this.” He waves his hand vaguely at “this.”

“What is _this_.”

Phichit bites his lips. “...Now’s not a good time for that selfie, isn’t it?”

“Oh my _God_.” Seung-gil rubs at his temples. But he laughs a little breathy, hysterical laugh, because how _ridiculous_ is this?

“Sorry.” Phichit takes his hand off the door and shows his palms. “Just wanted to break the ice.”

Seung-gil’s own hands slide over his eyes before falling to his sides. He blinks the leftovers of his salty tears away, although he knows they’re far from gone. He’ll cry more later, on his way home, into the fur of his jindo, but now. Now, he looks at Phichit, takes in his sheepish, apologetic smile, and thinks he would return it if he didn’t feel like such a mess.

He exhales and walks toward the door. Phichit’s posture straightens as he moves past him. Belatedly, Seung-gil realizes his face must look as blank as always, save for the puffy eyes and vague tear stains on his cheeks. He wonders why Phichit would waste so much time trying to interact with someone like him, at a time so miserable.

“I’m not going to the Grand Prix,” he says calmly, a hand already twisting the handle.

At the same time, a sudden, much louder, “You did really good!”

Seung-gil pauses. He stares at the metal handle, the sliver of hallway widening as he pushes the door. Phichit is still talking, rambling at this point about how he admires his skating and how nervous he felt skating around someone so talented and what was the name of that song, he didn’t quite catch it when he was watching? His voice fades into the background. Seung-gil wonders if he should leave, go home, and forget all about Phichit Chulanont until the next time he saw him, just another competitor to beat next time.

He looks up.

“Honestly, I could _never_ pull off feathers like that!” he says, and it’s so absurdly sincere and heartfelt that Seung-gil can feel his stomach twist.

His hand jerks from the door. He pulls his neglected phone from his pocket and hands it to Phichit, who handles it carefully with a confused smile.

“Um--”

“You…” Seung-gil clears his throat and pointedly stares at the space above Phichit’s left shoulder.

His face lights up. “Oh! Do you want my number?”

Seung-gil barely nods. The cold air of the bathroom is turning suffocatingly warm.

“Okay!” Phichit starts tapping away. “Wow, do you really not have a lock on your phone?”

“I don’t use it a lot.”

Phichit throws him a terrifyingly bright smile, fingers fluidly typing all the while. “I can change that,” he says.

Seung-gil doesn’t doubt him. He would say so, but his tongue feels heavy. By the time he’s parted his lips, Phichit is presenting his phone, pressing it assuredly into his palm.

“Let’s talk a lot, okay?” he promises.

“Uh.”

“A lot! I can’t wait!” His eyes do the crinkly thing again.

Seung-gil feels his feet melting into the cool linoleum tiles. There’s a wary curve at the ends of his lips, one he hardly notices until Phichit gasps and snaps a photo.

“What--”

“You _smiled_!” Phichit’s mouth shapes itself into a shocked little ‘o,’ just as Seung-gil’s presses into a thin line. “Good thing I immortalized it in my phone!” he cheers triumphantly.

“Delete it,” Seung-gil orders.

Phichit’s brows furrow together. “Please--”

He shuts his eyes. “Delete it.”

“Fine.” He draws the word out like a whine as his fingers move over his phone--and _how_ did he even get it out that fast?--before turning it over for proof. “See?”

“...Mm.”

Phichit sighs. “It’s too bad. You looked so good, too!”

Seung-gil wipes at his eyes self-consciously. “You can have another when we’re not in a bathroom,” he finds himself saying drily.

It’s not until Phichit’s grin is spilling over his cheeks that he realizes what he said.

“Wow!” He’s positively _beaming_. “So, next time, right?”

Seung-gil reluctantly nods. He doesn’t really feel like resisting anymore.

“I’ll look extra good!” Phichit declares. At the other man’s slow blink, he clarifies, “We do still need to take that selfie together.”

He could say, “I don’t do selfies.” Or even, “I regret this, I’m going to delete your number from my phone tonight and erase you from my memory.” But, while Seung-gil is antisocial, air-headed, and single-minded, he certainly isn’t _heartless_. What he manages is a quiet, “Yeah,” quickly drowned out by Phichit’s eager, “Okay!”

There’s a moment where Seung-gil just _stares_ , wondering again how blindingly bright one person could be. He imagines being in this position with anyone else--would the outcome have been with the same with JJ or Michele as it is now with Phichit? He honestly doubts it.

“Hey, Seung-gil.”

His name sounds kind of nice like that. It sounds softer, tilting up, brushing past barely open lips to float into his ears.

“I’ve been holding it in for a while now, can I--”

_Never mind._

Seung-gil sighs, and again, he feels an exasperated laugh rising in his throat, so he just forces out a suffering, “Yeah."

He pushes the door open and strides down the hall. His coach is already making her away back. She lifts an eyebrow upon seeing him. She doesn’t have an interrogation or lecture waiting for him, fortunately, but it’s not like he would have processed her words anyway. His mind keeps wandering, from his humiliating defeat to how to recover, and, frustratingly, to Phichit, _Phichit_ , so familiar with him, despite only knowing him for a grand total of, what, _ten minutes_?

 _More like thirteen_ , his mind supplies helpfully.

Seung-gil ignores his phone the entire trip home, only ever sparing it a glance when his coach isn’t around in case she’s calling. It isn’t until after he’s reunited with his jindo, shrugging his coat off onto the couch, and throwing himself across the bed, that he begrudgingly taps his contacts. He doesn’t scroll long before the unfamiliar name catches his attention.

_seung gils new best friend <33_

Seung-gil chokes.

 _Just delete it_ , he tells himself.

He starts typing.

> _It’s Seung-gil Lee._

It’s sent before he can properly reconsider. His eyes burn into the screen.

 _What am I doing? What am I waiting for?_  
  
He thinks of Phichit’s rosy lips, stretched into a radiant smile, and shoves his phone beneath his pillow.


End file.
